Linda Barlow

by Fires of Destiny

  Alexandra’s head was swimming. “He lured Will out with the intention of killing him? But why? Roger had a motive, perhaps, for killing his brother. What reason did Francis have?”

  “I don’t understand that either. But you were right that Will was not happy with his conversion to the Reformed faith. He did it mostly on my account, and he had begun to feel, at the time of his death, that he might have made a mistake. He was going to discuss it with his father.”

  “I hardly think Francis would have killed him for that.”

  Priscilla shrugged. “I know of no other reason.”

  Alexandra jumped up again, pacing in frustration. “What about Ned? I never believed he was a suicide.”

  “No. I didn’t know the boy very well, but my impression was that he wouldn’t have had the wits to hang himself. As for the dagger you said he found in the ditch? I think it belonged to Francis. He had a collection of swords and daggers from various parts of the world. I thought it strange, given that he was preaching the Word of God, but I have heard since that he is considered a notable swordsman, so perhaps that is why he possessed such weaponry.”

  “Did you actually see the dagger in his possession?”

  “Perhaps. The handle was ivory, was it not? And distinctively carved?”

  “Yes. It was Turkish, I believe.”

  Priscilla shrugged. “I am not certain. I would not like to swear to having seen the same weapon. It is possible.”

  “Well, supposing it was his, Francis could have dropped the in the ditch. Ned found it there and gave it to me, and I foolishly blabbed about it. Poor Ned. He trusted me to help him, not to get him killed.”

  “Don’t blame yourself. You had no reason to suspect treachery.”

  “Francis was in the forest on the day Ned died. He had not gone down to London after all. Alan saw him there. He could have done it, you see. He could have killed them both.”

  “He did so, Alexandra; I have no doubt.”

  “But this piece of embroidery.” Alexandra held it up. “It shows one man attacking the other with a rock. You couldn’t actually know that, though, could you? You were abed after birthing the babe when Will died.”

  “The stitch work is more my nightmare than anything else,” Pris admitted. “Ever since I saw the forged note, it’s how I’ve imagined Will must have died.” She shivered. “Sometimes I think it’s my own death I’m seeing in those dreams. As to what really happened that night, only Francis himself knows.”

  Oh, Francis! Alexandra’s head was throbbing. She had grown quite fond of the man. He loved Roger. Natural or unnatural, Francis’ love was a powerful force, the central force, Alexandra suspected, of his life. She put her face in her hands, absently rubbing her fingers over her aching temples. What would Roger do when he knew his closest friend had murdered his brother? In honor I’d have to avenge my brother’s death, would I not? I’d have to challenge him.

  But if he challenged the master swordsman, Roger would die.

  “So what are we going to do?” she asked, more of herself than of Pris. “Lacklin is a criminal already, accused of crimes even more serious than murder. He’s in exile. It’s possible he may never return to England.”

  “I know not. I only came because I thought Will’s family had a right to the truth.”

  “Are you going to the baron?”

  “I had intended to, but he is ill. I came first to Merwynna, for advice.”

  Alexandra glanced over at her mentor. “I haven’t seen the baron yet. Alan told me he’d had another heart seizure. Exactly how ill is he?”

  The wisewoman shrugged. “I do not know, but I believe his remaining time is short. He is surely in no condition to seek justice for his son’s murderer.”

  “I wish to return to Oxford,” said Pris. “As quickly as possible. I don’t want to stay here, especially now that you tell me Lacklin is still alive. There’s not much in this world I fear, but I fear that man.”

  “He and Roger are halfway to the Mediterranean by now,” Alexandra assured her, hoping it was true. “There’s nothing he can do to you, or me, or anybody now.”

  “Nevertheless, I want to leave. Tonight. You’ve heard my story now; you can tell it to his father when he recovers.”

  “Come with me to Whitcombe Castle. You can tell Alan and Dorcas, at least.”

  Pris looked uncertain. At last she said, “I have uneasy feelings and morbid dreams. But I will stay, if Merwynna says it is safe.”

  They both turned to the wisewoman, who nodded. “I shall make inquiry of the Goddess.”

  They sat in a circle at the herb table, clasping hands. Merwynna fell easily into a trance, and for several minutes nothing happened. Then she raised her head and spoke in the harsh voice that Alexandra had heard several times before. She raised a gnarled finger, stabbed it at Priscilla, and said, “Your destiny awaits you. Tarry no longer, but ride out to meet it. In truth, you must be wary…” The Voice paused here and laughed unpleasantly, as if at some sort of private jest “…of gray-eyed men.”

  I don’t like your Voice, Merwynna, Alexandra was thinking, just as the empty dark eyes turned their attention to her.

  “Your likes and dislikes are of no consequence,” the Voice declared. “I find you most amusing.”

  “That much is obvious. Someone is certainly having a merry old time creating disaster after disaster in my life.”

  “You accept no responsibility for the consequences of your own actions? You would blame them all on the machinations of a higher power?”

  “Or a lower one,” she snapped.

  Once again the Voice laughed. Its volume and intensity increased. “You have much to bear, but you are strong. You will need your strength in the months to come. You will need your wits, if you would survive. Trust the water and beware the fire. Embrace the earth, but let it go.”

  “You said that before, or something similar, and it still makes no sense to me at all.”

  “No? Then consider your stars, young woman, and do not be so great a fool.”

  Alexandra swallowed. Her stars? “What of my lover? What have you to tell me of him?”

  “The same thing I told you the first time.” The Voice cackled. “One who cannot, one who will not, one who dares not, one who dies.”

  “But that prophecy is fulfilled.”

  “Not all of it,” the Voice said ominously. “In sooth, more will die. In a hail of arrows shall they fall.”

  There was a pause. Alexandra couldn’t bring herself to comment. She’d always thought “one who dies” had referred to Will.

  “You yourself will help one to his death,” the Voice added almost conversationally. “As to your own fate, we shall see how well you guard this body.” The fathomless eyes seemed to be gazing down over Merwynna’s gaunt form. “She will need your protection soon. Take care to preserve her, for I need her, and it is tiresome training someone new.” The Voice laughed once again. “If you fail me and she dies, I might be forced to turn to you.”

  Alexandra broke the circle of hands, too angry to be terrified. Pris Martin cried out softly, in obvious dismay, and made the sign against evil.

  “You are a demon,” Alexandra said. “Merwynna is possessed. Be gone! And do not threaten me—I am not the prey of such as you.”

  The Voice continued to laugh, less maliciously now, sounding amused. “What I am is beyond your understanding. But I mean you no harm. We are linked: I, you, the wisewoman, the child in your womb. She is female. If you survive to birth her, she will live a full life and long. But put one foot wrong, and you will both die.”

  “What good is prophecy if anything can happen?”

  “I tell you what is probable. There are no assurances.”

  Merwynna shifted spasmodically in her seat and moaned. “We have had excellent contact today,” the Voice said cheerfully, “but it is too intense for this elderly one. She is weakening. Fare thee well. Persevere.” There was a quiet hiss, as of a spirit leaving a body, then
Merwynna’s head fell forward onto her chest.

  Alexandra jumped up and threw her arms around her old friend and mentor. For a moment she feared Merwynna was dead, for she was still and cold; she seemed to have no heartbeat. Alexandra quickly put her fingers to the large artery in the wisewoman’s throat, and was relieved to feel the light, rapid flutter of her blood. “Blessed God. She lives.”

  Pris had backed away to the cottage door. “She’s possessed by a demon.”

  “Whatever it was, it’s gone now,” Alexandra said sensibly. “Help me get her over to that mattress.”

  Pris helped, but she didn’t look happy about it. “I’d heard she was a witch, but I never knew she was capable of such. Aren’t you frightened, Alexandra?”

  “Not of Merwynna. She has some odd friends, I’ll admit.”

  “Did you understand everything that was said?”

  “No. But the Voice has been right before.”

  “What it said about your stars? Perhaps that was a reference to your birth sign. ‘Beware the fire?’ Francis Lacklin once told me that he was born under the sign of Sagittarius. It is a fire sign.”

  “And Roger was born under Scorpio, a water sign.”

  ‘“Trust the water.’”

  “I trust him now. When first the Voice spoke to me, I did not.”

  “And the earth? Who is that?”

  “Alan,” Alexandra realized. “He is a Taurus—an earth sign. ‘One who dares not.’ Embrace him, but let him go. I think, Pris, that you are right.”

  Pris gave her a sympathetic look. “And the child in your womb? You are pregnant?”

  Alexandra made a face. ‘“Tis a mixed blessing, to be sure.”

  “Then we are sisters,” said Pris, and for the first time since they’d known one another, the two women embraced.

  Pris insisted upon leaving. She would not go to Whitcombe, she said; she didn’t wish to see the place again. Particularly considering the Voice’s urgings that she was to tarry no longer, she wanted to return to the only place where she felt safe. “I’ve made some friends in Oxford.”

  “A man?” Alexandra couldn’t resist asking.

  Pris shook her head, a little sadly, Alexandra imagined. She hoped Priscilla would find a man, a good man, one who would marry her and give her children.

  “And you? You love Roger. I’ve known that since last summer. Why did you leave him?”

  Absurdly pleased to have the young woman as her confidante after all that had happened in the past to keep them apart, Alexandra told her. When she’d finished, Pris took her hand and clasped it tightly. “You and he will be together again. I feel sure of it.”

  “I hope so.”

  “Guard yourself and your child. Forget about this latest problem. Justice will come to Francis Lacklin sooner or later.”

  “He’s not a bad man,” Alexandra said slowly. “Ruthless, yes. He will kill if he has to, of that I am sure. But I can’t help thinking that if he killed Will, it must have been an accident… it’s something he would have been wary of doing, you see, because of Roger, whom he loves.”

  “Maybe Roger is why he did it. So Roger would be Baron of Whitcombe someday.”

  “But Roger has never wanted that.”

  “The Catholic lords are strong in the north,” Pris reminded her. “Whether Roger desired it or not, Francis may have needed a leader he could count upon in this part of the country.”

  “You’re right. My brain is working slowly today. I don’t think it wants to hear any of this. It certainly doesn’t want to face up to the truth.”

  “What happened was no accident. He lured Will out. He murdered the halfwit, Ned, because of his suspicion—it can’t have been more than suspicion—that Ned had seen something that night. He’s not a bad man, you say. Yet he sat by Will’s bed, pretending to be praying for him, for three entire days. You’ve realized why, I trust?”

  Alexandra swallowed hard. “So he could silence him if Will showed any signs of coming out of it alive?”

  “He must have been terrified that Will would open his eyes and accuse him.”

  Dear Christ, so he must. Alexandra had a vision of herself sitting faithfully beside Francis’ sickbed on the Argo. I fear you’ll rue the day you brought me back. Curse you, Francis! I should have let you die.

  Alexandra and Merwynna put together some food and water for Priscilla, who insisted on setting out for the London road immediately. But before she left, Alexandra sat down with her and copied out her account of everything she knew and suspected about the circumstances of Will’s death. It was a formal deposition, signed by Pris and witnessed by Alexandra and Merwynna. And when it was done, Alexandra dutifully made a second copy, which they also signed.

  “One copy is for you to keep,” she told Pris, “and one for me. We will be widely separated, and it is unlikely that Francis Lacklin can come back and kill both of us. Now, which of us shall keep the note you sent to Will—or rather, the note you didn’t send to Will?”

  Pris handed the note to Alexandra. “I am a heretic. I dare not take this matter before a magistrate. You must bear that responsibility. I’ve done all I can do.”

  “I know. And I thank you for it.”

  “Good-bye. Take care of yourself.” Pris touched Alexandra’s girdle gently. “And the child. I will pray for you.”

  “Thank you.” Alexandra smiled and added, “I’m glad we were finally able to become friends. Even for so short a time.”

  “I always liked you. ‘Twould have been difficult not to. You were unfailingly kind to me. But I was jealous because of Will.”

  “I never loved him. In truth, I was never your rival.”

  “I know that now. Farewell.”

  As Pris walked resolutely off into the forest alone, Merwynna squinted after her and said, “If I were ye, I’d send a man-at-arms after her, to keep guard upon her for a while.”

  “Why?” Alexandra looked sharply into her old friend’s eyes. “What can you see? Francis Lacklin is in the Mediterranean with Roger, isn’t he?”

  “Francis Lacklin is with Roger. Whether or not they are in the Mediterranean, I cannot say.”

  Alexandra shivered slightly. “I’ll send Alan. If his father’s not too ill, that is, for him to leave.”

  “‘Tis an excellent idea. Alan has gray eyes.”

  Chapter 33

  The Cock’s Feather Inn was a day’s ride from Whitcombe, and respectable, as such places go. But Roger agreed to stop there for only one reason: it was raining hard and Francis had a persistent head cold. He didn’t complain about it, but Roger could hear him coughing. Although three months had passed since Francis had been wounded in the chest on the riverbank, Roger wasn’t convinced that his friend had entirely recovered his strength. He felt guilty about dragging Francis into such danger as this when the man was still recuperating from the sword thrust he’d taken on Roger’s behalf.

  On the other hand, Francis needn’t have come. In fact, Roger had done his damnedest to convince him not to. “‘Tis folly for both of us to risk our necks in England. Alix is my headache, not yours.”

  But Francis had insisted. His own work was in England, not in the Mediterranean. He had proved to be helpful in getting Roger from one part of the country to another; the Reformer dissidents had established a network of refuges and safe houses throughout England. With the help of some of Francis’ associates they had been able to travel securely through the countryside to Yorkshire, where Alexandra was.

  The journey had been uneventful. They had tarried near London long enough to learn that their quarry had returned to her father’s house in Alan Trevor’s company, only to leave shortly thereafter, headed north. Roger had felt an almost irresistible desire to confront Sir Charles Douglas, but good sense had prevailed, and he had refrained. To announce his presence in the country to Douglas would be folly. Alexandra’s father would have no choice but to arrest him.

  So northward they had wended, disguised as a pair of traveling
friars, a part which Roger, having spent time in a monastery, was adept at enacting. Francis, the Protestant, considered the role demeaning, and played it out with lesser grace.

  It was a chilly night for September, and the warmth of the fire in the great hearth was welcome to them both. Roger stretched out lazily on a bench with a tankard of ale in one hand, contemplating the red-sparkling flames, which reminded him of his beloved’s hair. Tomorrow. Tomorrow he would see her. Tomorrow he would hold her in his arms. Tomorrow he would press the headstrong baggage down beneath his body and spread her silken thighs. Tomorrow he would make her his again—his woman, his mistress, his love. Infuriating wench! His fingers tightened on the tankard. Alix Douglas was going to learn once and for all who her master was.

  His anger with her had faded since that bitter morning on the Argo when he’d discovered her gone, but he hadn’t entirely forgiven her. Ever since that hellish night when he had nearly taken her in violence, he’d bent over backward to be gentle, solicitous, a true courtly lover in the manner of several centuries ago. It had been a mistake. She obviously considered herself to be just as independent a woman as she’d been before committing herself to his bed.

  Deep in his heart Roger knew that Alix’s independence, her quick mind, and her free spirit were among the things he most loved about her. In truth, he would not change a thing about her. But tonight he chose to imagine her as a more conventional woman, a woman who knew the virtues of submission. Aye, the time for chivalry was over. His time had come. He would storm Westmor if necessary, he thought, swallowing more ale as he enjoyed his fantasies. In the manner of a ruthless border lord, he would invade the fortress and steal the woman he wanted. This time he would ravish her, if he couldn’t have her any other way. A tender ravishment, spun of passion, laughter, and joy. He would love her over and over until they both expired of pleasure.

  Francis, seated next to him, sneezed. “Why don’t you go to bed?” Roger suggested.